The House on the Cliff (11 page)

“Let him go hungry for a few days. That'll persuade him!” put in one of the other men. This brought a hoarse laugh from his companions.

“You'll be hungry enough if you don't write that letter,” the chief agreed. “Are you going to write it?”

“No,” the boys barely heard the prisoner answer.

The chief said sourly, “You've got too much on us. We can't afford to let you go now. But if you write that letter, we'll leave you some food, so that you won't starve. You'll break out eventually, but not in time to do us any harm. Well, what do you say? Want some food?”

There was no reply from the prisoner.

“Give his arm a little twist,” suggested one of the smugglers.

At this the Hardys' blood boiled with rage. Their first impulse was to fling open the door and rush to the aid of the person who was being tormented. But they realized they were helpless against so many men. Their only hope lay in the arrival of the Coast Guard men, but they might come too late!

“Chief, shall I give this guy the works?” one of the smugglers asked.

“No,” the leader answered quickly. “None of that rough stuff. We'll do it the easy way—starvation. I'm giving him one more chance. He can write that note now or we'll leave him here to starve when we make our getaway.”

Still there was no reply.

To Frank's and Joe's ears came a scraping sound as if a chair was being moved forward.

“You won't talk, eh?” The leader's voice grew ugly.

There was a pause of a few seconds, then suddenly he shouted, “Write that note, Hardy, or you'll be sorry—as sure as my name's Snattmanl”

JOE gave a start. “It is Dad!” he whispered hoarsely. “He found the smugglers' hide-out!”

Frank nudged his brother warningly. “Not so loud.”

The boys' worst fears were realized—their father was not only a prisoner of the smugglers, but also his life was being threatened!

“Write that note!” Snattman demanded.

“I won't write it,” Fenton Hardy replied in a weak but clear voice.

The chief persisted. “You heard what I said. Write it or be left here to starve.”

“I'll starve.”

“You'll change your mind in a day or two. You think you're hungry now, but wait until we cut off your food entirely. Then you'll see. You'll be ready to sell your soul for a drop of water or a crumb to eat.”

“I won't write it.”

“Look here, Hardy. We're not asking very much. All we want you to do is write to your wife that you're safe and tell her to call off the police and those kids of yours. They're too nosy.”

“Sooner or later someone is going to trace me here,” came Mr. Hardy's faint reply. “And when they do, I can tell them enough to send you to prison for the rest of your life.”

There was a sudden commotion in the room and two or three of the smugglers began talking at once.

“You're crazy!” shouted Snattman, but there was a hint of uneasiness in his voice. “You don't know anything about me!”

“I know enough to have you sent up for attempted murder. And you're about to try it again.”

“You're too smart, Hardy. That's all the more reason why you're not going to get out of here until we've gone. And if you don't co-operate you'll
never
make it. Our next big shipment's coming through tonight, and then we're skipping the country. If you write that letter, you'll live. If you don't, it's curtains for you!”

Frank and Joe were shaken by the dire threats. But they must decide whether to go for help, or stay and risk capture and try to rescue their father.

“You can't scare me, Snattman,” the detective said. “I have a feeling your time is up. You're never going to get that big shipment.”

The detective's voice seemed a little stronger, the boys felt.

Snattman laughed. “I thought you were smart, but you're playing a losing game, I warn you. And how about your family? Are you doing them a service by being so stubborn?”

There was silence for a while. Then Fenton Hardy answered slowly:

“My wife and boys would rather know that I died doing my duty than have me come back to them as a protector of smugglers and criminals.”

“You have a very high sense of duty,” sneered Snattman. “But you'll change your mind. Are you thirsty?”

There was no reply.

“Are you hungry?”

Still no answer.

“You know you are. And it'll be worse. You'll die of thirst and starvation unless you write that note.”

“I'll never write it.”

“All right. Come on, men. We'll leave him to himself for a while and give him time to think about it.”

Frank squeezed Joe's arm in relief and exhilaration. There was still a chance to save their father!

Footsteps echoed as Snattman and the others left the room and walked through the corridor. Finally the sounds died away and a door slammed.

Joe made a move toward the door, but Frank held him back. “We'd better wait a minute,” he cautioned, “They may have left someone on guard.”

The boys stood still, listening intently. But there were no further sounds from beyond the door. At length, satisfied that his father had indeed been left alone, Frank felt for the knob.

Noiselessly he opened the door about an inch, then peered into the corridor which was dimly lighted from one overhead bulb. There was no sign of a guard.

Three doors opened from the corridor—two on the opposite side from where the brothers were standing and another at the end.

The passage was floored with planks and had a beamed ceiling like a cellar. Frank and Joe quickly figured where their father was and sped across the planks to the room. They pushed open the door of the almost dark room and peered inside. There was a crude table and several chain. In one corner stood a small cot. On it lay Fenton Hardy. He was bound hand and foot to the bed and so tightly trussed that he was unable to move more than a few inches in any direction. He was flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling of his prison. On a chair beside the cot was a sheet of paper and a pencil, evidently the materials for the letter Snattman had demanded he write.

“Dad!” Frank and Joe cried softly.

The detective had not heard the door open, but now he looked at his sons in amazement and relief. “You're here!” he whispered. “Thank goodness!”

The boys were shocked at the change in their father's appearance. Normally a rugged-looking man, Fenton Hardy now was thin and pale. His cheeks were sunken and his eyes listless.

“We'll have you out of here in a minute,” Frank whispered.

“Hurry!” the detective begged. “Those demons may be back any minute!”

Frank pulled out his pocketknife and began to work at the ropes that bound his father. But the knife was not very sharp and the bonds were thick.

Joe discovered that he did not have his knife with him. “It probably slipped out of my pocket when we undressed on the
Napoli,”
he said.

“Mine's gone too,” Mr. Hardy told them. “Snattman took everything I had in my pockets, including concentrated emergency rations. Have you anything sweet with you?”

Joe pulled out the candy bar from his pocket and held it, so Mr. Hardy could take a large bite of the quick-energy food. Meanwhile, his eyes roamed over the room in search of something sharp which he might use to help Frank with the ropes. He saw nothing.

Mr. Hardy finished the candy bar, bite by bite. Now Joe started to help Frank by trying to untie the knots. But they were tight and he found it almost impossible to loosen them.

Minutes passed. Frank hacked at the ropes, but the dull blade made little progress. Joe worked at the obstinate knots. Fenton Hardy could give no assistance. All were silent. The only sound was the heavy breathing of the boys and the scraping of the knife against the ropes.

At last Frank was able to saw through one of the bonds and the detective's feet were free. His son pulled the ropes away and began to work on the ones that bound his father's arms. As he reached over with the knife there came a sound that sent a feeling of terror through the Hardys.

It was a heavy footstep beyond the corridor door. Someone was coming back!

Frank worked desperately with the knife, but the ropes still held stubbornly. The dull blade seemed to make almost no impression. But at last a few strands parted. Finally, with Fenton Hardy making a mighty effort and Joe clawing at the rope with his fingers, it snapped.

The detective was free!

But the footfalls of the approaching smuggler came closer.

“Quick!” Frank whispered, as he flung the ropes aside.

“I—I can't hurry!” Mr. Hardy gasped. “I've been tied up so long my feet and legs are numb.”

“But we've got to hurry, Dad!” Frank said excitedly. “See if you can stand up.”

“I'll—I'll do my best,” his father replied, as the boys rubbed his legs vigorously to restore full circulation.

“We must run before those crooks come!” Joe said tensely.

Fenton Hardy got to his feet as hastily as he could. But when he stood up, the detective staggered and would have fallen if Frank had not taken his arm. He was so weak from hunger that a wave of dizziness had come over him. He gave his head a quick shake and the feeling passed.

“All right. Let's go,” he said, clinging to both boys for support.

The three hastened out the door of the room and across the corridor to the cave. As they entered it, Mr. Hardy's knees buckled. In desperation his sons picked him up.

“You go on,” he whispered. “Leave me here.”

“I'm sure all of us can make it,” Joe said bravely.

They reached the far door, but the delay had been costly. Just as Frank opened it, clicking off his flashlight, the corridor door was flung open and the ceiling light snapped on.

Frank and Joe had a confused glimpse of the dark man whom they had seen at the pond that afternoon. Snattman! Two rough-looking companions crowded in behind him.

“What's going on here?” Snattman exclaimed, apparently not recognizing the group for a moment.

“It's the Hardys!” one of the other men cried out

The fleeing trio started down the steps but got no farther than the landing when the smugglers appeared at the stairway and rushed down after them.

“Stop!” cried Snattman, jumping down the last three steps and whipping an automatic from his hip pocket. The place was flooded with light.

As Snattman drew closer, Frank crouched for a spring, then leaped directly at the smuggler. He struck at the man's wrist and the revolver flew out of his grasp. It skidded across the landing and clattered down the steps. Frank closed in on the man. Snattman had been taken completely by surprise. Before he could defend himself, Frank forced him against the wall.

Joe, in the meantime, with a swift uppercut had kayoed one of the other men. And Mr. Hardy, whose strength had partially returned, was battling the third as best he could.

But at this moment the boys saw their father's adversary dodge to the wall and press a button. In an instant an alarm bell sounded in the corridor. Within seconds a new group of Snattman's gang appeared. As some held drawn revolvers, others overpowered the three Hardys.

In the face of the guns, father and sons were forced to surrender and return to the room where Mr. Hardy had been held captive before.

Within five minutes Fenton Hardy was bound again to the cot, while Frank and Joe, trussed up and unable to move, were tied to two chairs.

SNATTMAN, once he had recovered from his first consternation and surprise at finding the Hardy boys in the underground room, was in high good humor. He turned to his men.

“Just in time,” he gloated, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. “If we hadn't come here when we did, they'd have all escaped!”

The Hardy boys were silent, sick with despair. They had been sure they were going to succeed in rescuing their father and now the three of them were prisoners of the smuggling gang.

“What are we goin' to do with these guys?” asked one of the men.

The voice sounded familiar to the boys and they looked up. They were not surprised to see that the man was the red-haired one they had met at the Pollitt place when Frank had discovered his father's cap.

“Do with them?” Snattman mused. “That's a problem. We've got three on our hands now instead of one. Best thing is to leave them all here and lock the door.”